A Hand Full of Stars

The Fourth Year

January 2 — I had a second piece of good news today. In the forty days Habib was gone he translated a crime novel. The author’s name is Maurice Leblanc, and the novel is one of twelve in an adventure series whose protagonist is a funny, brave thief named Arsène Lupin. The story is great, and even the author’s life is an adventure. The thief can transform himself into different shapes incredibly quickly. He steals from the rich (good!!!) and gives to the poor. Not only the police but also his colleagues are after him because he snatches the loot away from them. He does all this without firing a shot; his clever head is superior to force. Habib says that Lupin is very much loved in France.

January 10 — Damn it! Mahmud is out of a job again. His boss had to give up. No one comes to him to have his clothes tailor-made anymore. People buy cheap, disposable goods and thus many small shops go under.

Although I offered him money, this time Mahmud did not want to make a secret of it at home. “No, he ought to know. I don’t care whether he gets angry or not.”

His father became raging mad, but Mahmud screamed back at him that he had lost the job not because he was bad, rather because the country was.

His father became quiet and made tea for Mahmud.

January 15 — Mahmud spent the whole day looking for a job. During lunch break I went round to some of our customers who are fond of me and asked whether they might need anybody. All of them were friendly, but nobody wanted help. What a shitty life, always having to look for work!

January 18 — I am writing many poems and short tales again. Nadia thinks they’re lovely. Today I began a story about a very small red flower that attempts to climb over a huge stone because it doesn’t believe the stone is the end of the world. I don’t know what will happen to the flower.

Leila says my tales are odd. She would rather I write about marriages of princesses or princes. What do I care whether these sorts marry? I love Nadia and she is my red flower.

January 23 — Today I am seventeen. I hadn’t given it any thought, but Habib absolutely insisted that Mahmud and I come to dinner. When I arrived, the superbly spread table was a surprise. Even Mariam joined us for half an hour.

January 30 — Today Nadia told me that her father talks about nothing but the newspaper. Swearing her to secrecy, I confessed that I and my friends made the newspaper. She swore by her love for me that she would rather die than betray me. But she did not believe me, for when leaving, she said, laughing, that the fairy tale about the newspaper was terrific.

I have written more of “The Red Flower.” The flower climbs and climbs, surmounts the stone, and sees a vast world before it. It plays with the sun and falls in love with the moon, which tells it stories. Then a wind comes and brushes against the flower, wanting to glide over the stone. The wind flatters the flower and asks it to adapt itself, to cling to the stone like ivy.

Will the flower do it? What will happen if it doesn’t?

February 6 — Uncle Salim dreamed of his dead wife today. She, was naked and as young as on their first night. She took him into her soft arms, and he felt the pleasure of physical love as he had not in twenty years. Fabulous!

February 11 — Our neighbor the greengrocer had bad luck today, though at first it appeared to be good. This morning his wife brought his son into the world. The first son after seven daughters! He was so happy that he drank half a liter of arrack in the morning and soon was pleasantly drunk; toward noon he was dead drunk. He began to give away his produce, simply throwing it to passersby. A few poor devils gathered up carrots, tomatoes, and potatoes and hurried home before the stingy merchant came to his senses and demanded money for them. But others cursed him, because he’d hit them in the head with some vegetable. His joy grew and grew, as did the heap of vegetables he had cast around himself in his enthusiasm; for the first time in his life, he was the center of attention on the street.

But a melon put an end to the fun. An officer was strolling by, and it hit him solidly in the stomach. He staggered and fell into a puddle. The greengrocer’s gaiety was contagious; a couple of hooligans, who had seldom seen an officer sitting in a puddle, rolled him in the mire and repeatedly tossed his cap in the air. The good luck turned to bad. Officers set great store by their uniforms. The greengrocer was taken to the police station, where he received a few blows and a fine, which hurt him even more.

February 20 — I am seventeen and still love the stories of my best friend Uncle Salim just as much as I did ten years ago. Today I think he has been very wise to repeat the stories at intervals, for not only do the stories change with the telling, but the listener also has grown older and carries away different “magic fruits” from each telling.

Stories are magical springs that never dry up.

March 1 — I told Mahmud and Habib that I had revealed everything to Nadia. They were not angry, as I had feared they would be. On the contrary!.

The red flower decides not to obey the wind and declines its seductive offers. The wind grows angry, turns into a storm, and attacks the flower. The red flower fights, striking back with its thorns, but is torn out and thrown to the ground. The other little flowers are afraid, and a few that wanted to dare climbing over the stone are disheartened. Some of the older flowers say, “That red flower had it coming, always so curious!” But the red flower replies by gently describing the world on the other side of the stone, speaking of the moon and the sun. Because until now all they knew was that the world consisted of moist earth and a huge stone, behind which some sort of twilight appeared. When the other flowers heard the red flower’s tales, they began to climb. Many fell back, but others went forward. Since that day, there are no flowers behind the stone. They climb until they can see the sun and hear the moon’s stories.

Nadiá wept when I told her the tale. She said the flower could be any woman.

Leila did not like the story. She moaned that it would be better if the stupid wind died or got punched in the jaw. Her idea isn’t so dumb. Maybe I’ll settle up with the wind in another chapter.

March 11 — Mahmud has found a job washing dishes in a posh nightclub. I am against his working among pimps, as are Nadia and Mariam. Only Uncle Salim and Habib think no harm will come of it. To each his own. Uncle Salim said a lion would not become a dog if it gnawed a bone out of hunger. Habib also defended Mahmud, saying Mahmud had to earn his living and my screwed-up morals were useless for that. His remark really made me mad!

Mahmud was furious with me, and for the first time we really had a fight.

“You should become a priest and not a journalist,” he said angrily. He was extremely snide, and I gave it back to him. “Better to be a priest than to earn one’s living off whores!” I cried.

Habib defended the whores, saying they were just as good as ministers or housewives, no better and no worse. They have to get through somehow, too. “The state is the pimp!” he screamed and laughed peculiarly. “And you are a priest.”

I ran out of the apartment in a rage. Mahmud followed me, and we walked home, not speaking. Shortly before we reached the door to the house, he grabbed hold of me. “You’re my friend, even if you’ve hurt me,” he said.

I embraced him and asked his forgiveness. But I don’t want to go to Habib’s anymore.

March 15 — “For the third time my wife has appeared to me in a dream. Over and over again she says she would like to see me soon,” Uncle Salim stated, making me anxious. My mother believes in it. I’m worried about my friend, even though he is the picture of health.

March 19 — “You are my best friend. What a pity you were born so late. I would have liked to meet you sometime as a young coachman,” Uncle Salim said today for no reason. I had dropped by to see if he needed anything from the market. All the children in the house do this. “Up until now my wife alone has seen my treasure,” he went on, “but I want to show it to you as well; only afterward you must grant me a wish!” Salim took a small cigar box out from under the bed. He stroked it gently, as if it were made of silver. Carefully he opened it.

“Do you see this key?” he asked. “This is the key to my coach. I had to sell everything, but I would not hand over the key.” He put it aside and took a marble out of the box. “I played with this marble as a child. It was my favorite, and when I rubbed it, it brought me luck in the game.”

Then he took a small dried root out of his treasure chest. “This root is from a plant that grows in the mountains, where I hid myself. The plant is cut every year, and it always grows back. It cannot be killed. The peasants carry it in their pockets because it gives life. During my five-year flight I always had it with me. — And this gold coin is from a robber whose life I once saved. He gave me the task of giving it to someone who no longer sees any way out. I realized only very late how much wisdom was concealed in this robber, for whenever I wanted to give it to someone, we looked for a way and found one, too.”

Uncle Salim was quiet for a long time, as if he surmised the great burden of his wish. “My friend,” he finally said, “I would like you to lay the marble, the key, and the root in my grave with me. The gold coin I turn over to you with the robber’s request.”

I felt bad. “You are not going to die,” I whispered hoarsely, but Uncle Salim insisted on giving me the box. Now it lies hidden under the boards in my closet, right where I keep my journal.

March 20 — Uncle Salim is sick. I brought him food and tea in bed. He’s breathing heavily and says he caught cold from a draft,

P.S.: I have not been to Habib’s for nine days.

March 21 — Late yesterday my mother came into my room and said there was a man downstairs at the door, asking for me. She suspected it was Habib because she recognized his shirt and trousers from having washed them.

I jumped out of bed. He was already standing there smiling. I invited him to come in. My mother hurried off to make coffee.

“I want to apologize to you. I was very rough on you, but you were impossible!” he said and ran his hand through my hair.

“Let’s not start again. I only stated my opinion,” I replied.

We talked and talked. He held to his position, as I did to mine, but he was polite. My mother brought the coffee and sat down with us.

“What a beautiful mother you have,” the rogue flattered her; my mother laughed. We agreed I should come to his place today after work.

I went there today, as did Mahmud. His job doesn’t begin until eight and goes on until four in the morning. He talked about it. The owner is a swine, and Mahmud’s fondest wish is to smash him against a wall; still, the dancers and the hostesses are very nice. Now and then they come into the kitchen and joke with the personnel. Sometimes, when they earn a lot of money outside, the hostesses even treat them to something.

Okay, as he describes it, the job doesn’t seem bad. He is paid well.

March 24 — Uncle Salim has been ill more than four days. At first it seemed he just had a cold, but he’s been running a fever for three days now. Neither tea nor cold compresses helped, so my parents went for the doctor. After speaking with him, my father telephoned Salim’s daughter in Aleppo. His son lives in America and cannot be reached.

I have never seen my father so sad. Every day when he returns from the bakery, even before he eats, he goes to see Uncle Salim and strokes his hand over and over again. Uncle Salim wants me to stay with him. I sit by his bedside until he falls asleep. My God, how small he has become, as if he’d shriveled up inside his own skin.

March 26 — Uncle Salim’s daughter has arrived. I hadn’t seen her in ten years. She and her father never got along. Now she is very concerned and extremely kind to him. But Uncle Salim does not treat her in a particularly friendly way. Time and again he asks her why she is here. She ought to go home to her stupid husband.

She came down to our place and wept bitter tears because her father had never forgiven her for running off with the son of his enemy. I don’t understand this, and when Uncle Salim is well again, I will ask him about it. But my mother did not want to wait that long. She went down to his place and talked to him, and after a while she called for me and his daughter, then hurried into the kitchen. We ran downstairs; the old scoundrel sat bolt upright in his bed, laughing. “Come here!” he cried to his daughter. “Mrs. Hanne’s words were like a cold shower. Come, let me give you a hug.”

The woman sobbed on Uncle Salim’s shoulder, and he kissed her on the forehead. I sat there speechless while she told him about all the things her husband had sent along and how the children (she has three) were doing. When my mother came with coffee and saw the two of them, she exclaimed, “Now things are right; anger be damned in its grave!” We all laughed.

March 28 — For three days he improved. His daughter was about to leave, but today Uncle Salim suddenly lost consciousness. In despair I ran to the doctor. (For a week I haven’t been working; I explained to my boss that I did not want to leave Uncle Salim. He was very nice and said I should stay with my old friend until he recovered.) The doctor said Uncle Salim was in a very bad way. And there’s nothing to be done. His heart has become too weak. Damn! I would gladly give him a part of mine.

April 5 — A coup! At dawn there was a clattering of rifles. Fighter planes thundered and swooped over the houses. For a long time the radio was silent. It was nearly noon when the agitated voice of an announcer delivered the first communiqué. The government has been toppled, because it — what else could it be? — had become corrupt and treacherous. The speaker threatened to exterminate each and every opponent of the new revolution. In the coming days a curfew would be imposed, twenty hours a day. Civilians could go out between the hours of noon and four. My father said that the new government still wasn’t fully in control. It certainly sounds that way.

Uncle Salim groans lightly and is feverish. I have given his daughter my bed and have been sleeping with Leila for three days. (The monster continually lies diagonally across the bed and thrashes all night long.) Every morning my mother lights a candle for the Virgin Mary so that she will protect Uncle Salim.

April 6 — The curfew is still on; despite the danger, today I sneaked over to Habib’s. He, too, senses that those in power are not yet firmly in the saddle. The air force and the navy are against them, and it gets worse from one coup to another, because each time weapons play a bigger part. It’s enough that the air force is holding out. The fight for the capital might last days or weeks. Jet fighters fly over Damascus but don’t drop any bombs. Damascus is firmly in the hands of the new rebels, while the northern part of the country refuses to capitulate, and the roads are blocked off.

The streets were as if swept clean when I returned. I learned from Habib that the soldiers, who have grown hysterical, shoot at anyone they see on the street. I was very careful, always walking just a few steps and then standing a while in the entrance to a house or in a side alley to observe whether a patrol was nearby.

Was my mother ever angry when I came home! She didn’t want to talk to me until I promised never to do it again. And she was right. It was foolish.

Uncle Salim slept peacefully. His daughter was somewhat relieved because he woke up in the afternoon. He ate and had some tea, laughed, and asked for me.

My father sat in his room, listening to the radio in the dark. When I came in, he whispered, “They are still fighting. The navy has recognized the new regime, but the air force has nearly destroyed the radio station and the presidential palace. Aleppo resists, and the panzers are rolling northward. God protect the women and children!”

Monday, April 8 — Yesterday was the saddest day of my life. Uncle Salim, that brave and noble man, died.

What a loss for us all! My best friend is gone. He was always there for me, always stood up for me against all the adults. If I happened to play a mean or dirty trick, Uncle Salim could be very harsh with me. But he never humiliated me in front of others, as my father and schoolteachers did. No, he would take me aside, furious, and gently explain what a louse I was.

All the neighbors, grown-ups and children alike, wept, and the whole house was full of people.

He died in the night, without a sound, and left us forever. His small room is filled with flowers from his friends. My father closed the bakery and made bitter coffee — as is customary on such occasions — for all who came to offer condolences. Together with some other men, he fetched a simple casket, although going out is still prohibited. My mother helped wash Uncle Salim, all the while returning to the courtyard, where she sat down in a corner and wept. Nadia and her mother were here all day. Only her father, the miserable pig, stayed away, even though he just sat at home. Nadia fearlessly stroked my hair and held my hand because I was in a rather bad way.

Even as he entered, the priest admonished everyone to remain level-headed. A funeral procession would be dangerous, and thus he would see to getting a permit for a car in which he and the daughter of the deceased could be taken to the cemetery. Never in his whole life had my father screamed at a priest, but yesterday he was mad as hell. I was really proud of him. He shrieked that the church was no longer serving the poor but only those who drive a Mercedes. Jesus always stood up to those who abused him, but the church obeyed the orders of the most asinine officer.

“Uncle Salim,” my father cried out into the dumbstruck congregation, “was not a criminal to be smuggled to the cemetery under the cover of night and fog. He was a noble man, and the funeral procession should show this!”

Men and women both supported him and decided to ignore the curfew. The priest grew pale and wanted to slip away. He said he had a baptism to perform and that he would send a deputy.

“You’re staying right here,” Uncle Salim’s daughter commanded, grabbing hold of the man of the cloth when he sought to get by the silent men. “If the men won’t keep you here, then I will. He is my father!” she cried, and the priest stayed.

The women elected, contrary to prescribed custom, not to remain in the kitchen but to go along to the cemetery. None of them wanted to leave the men alone in their distress.

Our street had never seen the likes of this procession. Hundreds of people accompanied Uncle Salim’s casket, which was borne by six men. Over two hundred women ran ahead of it; this too was something that had never been done. I walked, with Mahmud and Habib, directly behind it in the midst of the crowd. When the pallbearers reached the main road, they turned around three times in a circle so Uncle Salim could take leave of his little street; then the procession advanced into the nearby church. It was crammed full. I stayed outside with Habib, but Mahmud wanted to stand with his father right beside the coffin. Josef came late and quietly joined us. The priest gave a good speech.

From the church the funeral procession took the broad street to the East Gate of Damascus, then turned right, toward the cemetery; after a hundred paces, it suddenly came to a halt. I couldn’t see anything; I just heard shrieks. We knew something had happened and ran to the front. I seized the knife in my pocket; Mahmud already had his out. A jeep blocked the street, and four soldiers aimed their machine guns at the women. But the women would not stop. They cursed out loud, and Uncle Salim’s daughter tore open her black blouse and cried, “Let the procession go, and shoot me!” She forged ahead, and the other women grabbed stones, from the side of the road and advanced on the retreating military officers.

When a woman cried out, “We are your sisters and mothers!” I saw a few soldiers look down at the ground. The officer in the jeep gave the command for retreat, and the vehicle sped away. I looked back and was surprised to see that Habib stood behind me with a pistol in his hand. He put its safety back on and stashed the gun in his jacket. Never in my life would I have thought that Habib owned a pistol, though I knew my father and two neighbors had taken their weapons along. I’d heard them discussing it in the stairwell. But it was the brave women who drove off the soldiers with stones.

At the graveside, Habib made a moving speech in a sad voice, speaking of the wisdom of the deceased and weeping just as the other men and women were.

P.S.: Exactly as Uncle Salim wished, I placed the marble, the key to his coach, and the dried root beside him in the casket. The priest regarded this as superstitious, but when he learned it was the request of the deceased, he agreed. All I kept was the gold coin. I will fulfill the wish of the robber and of Uncle Salim.

April 11 — Since yesterday life has returned to normal. I’m back at work. Panzer tanks are everywhere. The radio station has been destroyed, and many buildings in the New City bear the scars of battle. Uncle Salim goes on living in me, and as long as I’m alive, he will remain there.

About ten years ago his wife died. Roughly a month later, I visited him. I was seven years old at the time and already a fast friend of the old coachman. When I got there, I saw how he set the table for breakfast: two plates, two cups, two knives, and two spoons. I brought to his attention the fact that his wife had died. He smiled and said, “To you, my friend, to you she is dead. In me she is still alive and will remain so as long as I breathe.”

My mother probably won’t set a place for Uncle Salim next Sunday, but as long as I breathe, he will still be alive within me.

April 14 — Our silly neighbor Afifa has frightened her five-year-old daughter, and now she’s bemoaning the consequences. Little Hala asked her mother why Uncle Salim died, and she answered, “Because he was old.”

“But all of you are old; why aren’t you dying?” the curious daughter asked.

Afifa was in a tight spot and could find no better excuse than “Uncle Salim forgot how to breathe while he was sleeping.”

Now the poor child cries before going to bed because she’s afraid of forgetting how to breathe. Or else she wakes up scared every night, struggling for air. And Afifa, this stupid cow? She complains that the girl has no sense of humor.

April 21 — The days go by, and yet I cannot get Uncle Salim out of my thoughts. I miss him terribly. A student moved into his little room. Sometimes when I go downstairs and hear a noise, for a few seconds I think about looking in on Uncle Salim. Funny, although I know he is dead, this happens to me repeatedly. We miss his laughter in the courtyard. No one could laugh as childishly and gaily as he.

Today I know that he was mistaken about something. “Death,” he said one day, “is a long sleep.” No, death is a final step. It leads somewhere, from which there is no coming back. Uncle Salim may well live on in the trees, flowers, and thistles; every kind of vegetation takes a part of him out of the earth and passes it all on: The trees — shadow and security; the flowers — fragrance and color; and the thistles — barbs and resistance. But no being on earth can make a living mixture out of all that is Uncle Salim.

No, I have lost my best friend for good. I feel lonesome. I love Mahmud and Nadia. I have great respect for Habib. But Uncle’s place remains empty.

May 4 — Mahmud is now content at his job. He’s no longer in the kitchen; he’s serving guests in the nightclub. He doesn’t make much in tips, but he gets to cheat a few rich drunks who have oodles of money.

All the women in the club are blondes. Half of them come from Europe; the other half bleach their hair because men who come to the club like to look at blondes. They dance practically naked in front of these guys who gawk at and drink with them. Of course, when the women order drinks, they demand the most expensive ones, since they get a percentage.

The owner also has them strip before certain powerful or super-rich guests. The women may be very pretty, but they drink a lot and are desperately unhappy.

May 7 — Once again Nadia’s father serves a new government, hunting those formerly in power, since a few of them escaped the first wave of arrests. What a filthy pig! Nadia has nothing but contempt for him.

When I talked about Uncle Salim again today, she said something really lovely: “No one can replace a friend, but I will keep your friend’s faith so that your loss will grow smaller.”

I love her.

May 11 — We are preparing the fifth issue of the paper. Habib is writing an article about the Syrian coup; I, a story about friendship, which I’m dedicating to U.(ncle) S.(alim). I cannot reveal his name. Mahmud’s seven questions are better than ever. They are about double standards, death, and the coup. The funniest one goes “Not only are bread and milk nowhere to be found, Oriental dancers have died out as well. In nightclubs American women wiggle and wobble before our eyes. Do you know where all these lost things have gone? Ask the revolutionary government!”

May 15 — Today Habib went to the cafe where authors and journalists meet and tell one another what they’ve heard. He declined an offer to work for the official government newspaper. He’s living well enough off the translations. The book about Arsène Lupin has come out; he gave me a signed copy.

Nadia came to Habib’s apartment for two hours. I showed her the newspaper strips (issues 3 and 4), and for the first time she believed me. She took me in her arms and kissed me for a long time.

She showed me how fast she can type. You can scarcely see her fingers. She learned how to do this in school.

May 21 — Today my father told me that the apprentice who took my place has left the bakery, preferring to become a smuggler. His village lies on the Lebanese border, and by smuggling, one can either quickly become very rich or else land in jail. Before he left, he trained a new boy. My father has slowly renovated the bakery, and things are going better for him. I notice this when we eat. Never before have we had so much meat on the table as in these last months. Immediately my thoughts returned to the boy who replaced me, who wanted to be an actor. He was talented, but he didn’t have as good a friend as Uncle Salim.

June 2 — Issue 5 is finished! We ran off more than two thousand strips. It was an awful lot of work, but the edition is great. In very simple language Habib exposed the lies of the thirty-four rebels who have ruled Syria until now.

June 7 — We sent up five balloons with about three hundred strips, which sailed down wonderfully in the wind.

June 9 — The operation in the Umayyad Mosque was somewhat dangerous, but we were able to distribute the strips in four additional churches and in ten smaller mosques.

Habib is nearly done with the second crime novel about Arsène Lupin. He is very satisfied with himself, smokes less, and has gained some weight. Mariam loves him to distraction, but I don’t think he loves her equally. He’s still always thinking about his wife. Can one person love several people? I think one could love the first one intensely, the second mildly, the third. yes, like all the colors of the rainbow. How right the madman was.

June 13 — Mahmud is really earning a lot of money. He saves some and gives most of it to his parents. His mother is overjoyed and is dressing better and better.

Today he remarked that a few generals are regular guests for the special performance. They drink like drains and behave like pigs; even the chairs could sag in shame. He hears them talk about what they have done and boast about all the people they know.

“Wouldn’t it be good to bring all their gabble to light?” I asked.

“Certainly!” Mahmud answered.

June 26 — Damn it! A catastrophe! Habib got caught!!!

I went to visit him, and from far off I saw the police cars. Two armed soldiers guarded the entrance door. I stood some distance away with many neighbors and a few curious bystanders. Again and again police officers from a special division came out of the house carrying cartons and putting them in the cars. Mariam stood on the balcony. She saw me and shook her head. Her face was dead white.

I waited until the cars drove away, then I sneaked over to her place. She fell crying into my arms and whispered, “What will I do without him? They said he was a traitor and that he got money from abroad in order to destroy the state. My poor Habib!” She sobbed in despair.

Mariam already knew we were making the paper, but she didn’t say a word when friends and acquaintances of Habib’s asked questions. I took her into her bedroom, where she cowered like a small child, weeping on the bed. I crept upstairs and opened the door to Habib’s apartment with my key. It looked as if a pack of wolves had stormed the place. The closet was smashed up, and the photo of Habib’s wife lay in tatters. Nothing in the apartment was as it had been. Tea, salt, sugar, and coffee were strewn all over the floor; dishes were broken to bits. They had taken all the books, the typewriter, the mimeograph machine, even his laundry.

Mahmud was terribly shocked when he learned about it. There is no trace of fear in him personally, but he’s terrified for Habib’s life. They will beat him to death or drive him mad and then put him in an insane asylum.

June 29 — I discussed it with Mahmud. He thought it was now time to give up the gold coin for Habib, that we should get a lawyer with it. But we can’t find one! They gave Mahmud evasive answers as to why they could not take the case, just as they gave me. One alone was honorable, explaining that the defense of political prisoners is prohibited in Syria. Nadia confirmed this. Her boss, that show-off who is always bragging about how many judges have passed through his hands, looked at Nadia with suspicion when she inquired. He brusquely advised her that if she wanted to go on working for him, she had better get back to typing letters and refrain from speaking of political cases in his offices.

Evidently a flyer is more dangerous than a murder in this country.

July 1 — Tonight BBC London brought word of the arrest. They must have gotten it from the French paper Le Monde. Thanks to his intrepid journalistic activity, Habib was arrested.

July 4 — Not until the ninth day did the government newspaper report that a madman by the name of Habib had for a while published a silly newspaper and now was in treatment.

My boss is extremely peculiar. He scoffed at Habib for having been so idiotic as to have set himself against the entire bureaucracy alone. The gutless dog, I could have spit in his face.

July 10 — Yesterday we sat together for a long time, pondering what we could do. We have to get Habib out. But how?

Mahmud suggested that we abduct a general from the nightclub and demand Habib’s release in exchange. Not a bad idea, I thought, and tomorrow I’ll go there and look the club over. Mahmud can offer me a free drink.

My boss found out from some big shot that Habib is beyond help. The guy claimed he could spring any pimp, hashish smuggler, or knifer, but he wouldn’t touch a political prisoner; he didn’t want to get his fingers burned.

The Journalists’ Association also rebuffed my boss. “Habib,” they said, “is sick and irresponsible.”

July 11 — Nadia thinks our idea stinks. She bawled us out for being so stupid and naive as to believe any one general could be so important. She laughed scornfully and yelled at me, “Who knows, maybe you’ll get a medal for having spared the government the trouble of getting rid of a general it wanted to dispose of and didn’t know how to. But Habib won’t come out of it alive.”

July 12 — Last night I went to the club. I told my mother, and she’s supposed to invent something if my old man asks about me. But I promised her I would neither spend money nor have anything to do with the women there. I would only visit Mahmud and see how he does his job.

The club is sheer madness! One can scarcely believe anything like it exists in Damascus. Outside, the women we come in contact with refuse even a kiss, and inside they sit and indulge in the wildest Parisian life.

Mahmud pointed out the minister of justice and then the air force general who took so long to accept the government. These guys don’t look the least bit frightening. The general was a rather small and emaciated man of fifty, dressed in civilian attire. I could have taken him for a cattle dealer or the keeper of a small shop. Uniforms really do make all the difference!

A somewhat fat blonde performed an Oriental dance. That really was something to see! It simply couldn’t be called dancing; it was nothing but a waggling of fat. Still, the men cheered each time she bent over and showed her breasts. After two drinks, the general was drunk and ostentatiously spoke English — but so badly that I commiserated with his English teacher. The guy had no idea what he was saying; he translated his Arabic exclamations into English word for word. What is lovely in Arabic is macabre in a verbatim translation.

“Oh, my eyeapple,” he cooed enthusiastically. “You bury me, you sweet bee,” he called to the dancer while rolling his eyes.

Nadia is right. Any government would love to be rid of such an idiot. They can easily replace him with a similar dope. This evening I will talk to Mahmud and Nadia again.

July 13 — Today I was in the cemetery, at Uncle Salim’s modest grave. It does not distinguish itself from the earth that bore him and to which he has returned. I set five red roses on it.

My sadness for Habib is nearly choking me, but I want to live and laugh. I don’t want to give up hope. My old friend Salim taught me this.

“Everything grows,” he said to me one day. “Everything grows, except for catastrophe. It is largest at birth, and then it shrinks from day to day.”

July 14 — We spoke for a long time together. Mahmud also became pensive when Nadia asked him, “What do you think Habib would most like to do now?”

“Make another newspaper,” we whispered as if with one voice.

“Exactly, the newspaper. These murderers ought to know that if they kill Habib, many Habibs will spring up in his place.”

Nadia wants to collaborate. She wants to report on the women of Damascus; Mahmud is writing about some of the secrets of the last coup. I am writing an article about Habib, the bravest journalist in Syria; Mahmud and Nadia decided this, since I am the one who knows Habib best.

Mahmud has spent two hundred pounds of his savings on a mimeograph machine and a typewriter. And I contributed a hundred for paper, ink, and balloons.

It took some time to find a hideout where we could set up our “press.” Here Mariam was a great help. She has an old friend who rents rooms to students. Because the term is over, an attic room has been vacant for a week. It’s very cheap, and young people are constantly going in and out of the house it’s in. The woman who owns the house lives a couple of blocks away in a nice neighborhood; she doesn’t care who her tenants are. The main thing is that the rent be paid each month in advance. Mariam is taking care of this for us and for Habib.

Tomorrow I’ll go with her to visit the woman and pick up the key. I’ll pretend to be a freshly baked student and that my father is a rich farmer up north. Three months’ rent will convince her.

Habib needs the newspaper. We will show the military just how many Habibs the imprisoned journalist has brought into the world.

A Hand Full of Stars

The Hand is the hand of Uncle Salim, always there to guide the narrator; in the saddest moments, it points the way out of despair. Like the stars that illuminate the dark night sky, the Stars in the hand stand for hope.

— R. S.